


Whallop!

by inigosolo



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Anal Sex, Desk Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inigosolo/pseuds/inigosolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following prompt on hhanon;</p><p>Billy the Kid/Cliff Whiteley<br/>Loud, frantic sex on his desk. With Cliff's secretary grudgingly keeping guard, and listening on in, outside his office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whallop!

**Author's Note:**

> Anon honestly can't believe that she is filling this, but is very happy to be part of a fandom where such a crazy-brilliant prompt is possible. Frantic sexing to come, anon is building up to it.  
> In case anyone's interested, the Centurion in the last part is meant to be roman!Larry from the Boudicca song (“It's bad enough being beaten, but beaten by a girl!”) because I love him more than is at all healthy.

Cliff was well chuffed that Ms. Hart had taken care of these two wild west jokers for him. She'd done him a favour really.   
  
She's saved him the years of misinformation, rumour-mongering and medling it would have taken to wipe Mr. Earp and Mr. The Kid from the pages of history.   
  
He had been left with a couple of problems, though.   
  
Not least, his bloody ceiling and the massive hole therein. The guys from AXIS Management upstairs were not going to be happy. Cliff''d have to think about taking out new liability insurance.   
He'd been in for weeks of expensive repairs, not to mention the inconvenience of trying to run a business with a gaping hole in his ceiling. And all this when he had that tricky re-branding of Al Capone coming up...  
  
The second, and slightly more pressing problem was the two erstwhile historical figures lying prone on his floor. They'd make an interesting talking point, perhaps, but the were hardly practical for the day-to-day running of the place.   
  
Ms. Hart had proved invaluable at first, dragging Mr. Earp up off the floor by his lapels and bringing him round with a few enthusiastic slaps across the face.   
  
But when she took pity on Mr. Earp and offered him her hip flask and their eyes met over the sipping liquor, Cliff got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Honestly, these historical figures had no restraint. They were always at it.  
  
Before Cliff could say _What about this other clown?_ Ms. Hart and Mr. Earp were leaving the office together, all wandering hands and foul language (from Ms. Hart) and charming smiles and twitching moustache (Mr. Earp).   
  
Cliff was left with a seemingly unconscious Billy the Kid buried under a mound of plaster board and no notion of what to do with him once he was out.   
He'd known when he missed the bus this morning that it wasn't going to be his day.   
  
*****

  
Cursing Pearl Hart and Wyatt Earp for leaving him in this predicament, Cliff buzzed Susan and asked her to come into the office. He was reminded once again why he'd hired her when she didn't even flinch at the sight that met her eyes.   
  
Susan removed her high heeled shoes and took off her horn-rimmed specs in order to help Cliff shift the layers of plaster off Billy the Kid. With an enormous amount of effort the two of them managed to lift the dead weight that was Mr. The Kid and lay him out across Cliff's desk.   
  
Susan let the gunslinger's head drop down onto the desk with an audible thud and informed Cliff that nursing historical figures, especially ones whose supposedly unconscious hands kept coming to rest on the back of her skirt, wasn't part of her job description. She replaced her spectacles and stalked out of the office, sling-backs in hand.  
  
Cliff sighed loudly and sank down into his office chair.   
  
“'Ey mate? You can stop pretendin' to be unconshush now, know what I mean? We've already put in all the effort for you. And you've gone and felt up my secretary. Talk about ingratitude...”  
  
“Sir, I haven't seen a female turned out so nicely since... Ever, in my whole life. My hands wandered of their own accord.”  
  
“Well, you're not in the wild west now, mate. You've got to behave yourself around women these days...”  
  
“Sir, are all the women in your time so clean?”  
  
“Alright, Mr. The Kid. I've 'ad enough. Get off the desk, please.”  
  
Mr. The Kid sat up stiffly, and quickly clutched at the top of his head. Blood trickled thickly through his grimy fingers.   
  
Cliff rolled his eyes.   
  
“Oh that's just great, that is...” He picked up the phone, having to reach over the gunslinger's legs to do so. “Susan? Yeah, can you do us a favour and bring the first aid kit in? You what? Yeah, alright, alright! Just open the door and throw it in then, thanks love.”  
  
The door creaked on it's hinges as it was flung open and the first aid kit sailed into the room and hit Mr. The Kid square in the eye.   
  
Good shot love, thought Cliff, though he restrained himself to saying “Wall-op...” under his breath.

  
Mr. The Kid groaned and transferred his hand to press against his eye, smearing blood across his face in the process.   
  
“Ah see that the gals in your time have all been to the Pearl Hart school of manners. No wonder a fella can't get away with nothin'.”  
  
“Do us a favour, mate. Shut it.”  
  
Cliff retrieved the first aid kit and dabbed at the cut on Mr. The Kid's head with a sterile wipe. The supposed gunslinger whined and flinched at the sting of alcohol in the wound, making Cliff roll his eyes again. Some Wild West legend...  
  
“Oi, sit up will ya mate? You're hardly dying, are you...”  
  
Mr. The Kid swung his long legs around to dangle over the side of the desk and sat up so Cliff could tend to him without doing his back in.   
  
The cut had soon stopped bleeding, so Cliff mopped the rest of the blood (as well as about an inch of grime) off Mr. The Kid's face, his lips twitching when he saw the black eye starting where Susan had socked the rascal with the first aid kit.   
  
He was about to suggest that Mr. The Kid be on his way back to his own time and let Cliff get on with clearing some of this mess.   
  
But when he lifted his head he found that Mr. The Kid was staring at him in that slightly un-hinged way he had, looking worryingly thoughtful.   
  
He would be, Cliff grudgingly acknowledged, _kinda handsome,_ if not for the sharp and crooked teeth and his terrible hair. And the gormless facial expression, of course, but he was no longer wearing that.   
  
“Sir, you have got to be the cleanest man ah have ever seen. And that is one mighty fine suit you got on. What d'yall call that colour?”  
  
Cliff had an array of impassive faces he reserved for conversations like these, but even by his usual standards the look he gave Mr. The Kid was withering.   
  
“White, mate.”  
  
He was surprised when the gunslinger let out a burst of laughter.   
  
“Sir, _this_ is white,” he held up the ragged collar of his own shirt, which looked to Cliff to be a sort of brownish beige, “Ah ain't never seen _that_ colour before. Looks like moonlight.”  
  
The ridiculousness of the conversation was doing nothing to improve Cliff's mood.   
  
“Alright, Mr. The Kid, I 'ave got work to be getting' on with, so...” He was cut off when Mr. The Kid suddenly thrust his nose forward until it touched on the lip of Cliff's grey shirt collar. Cliff blinked as he realised he was being thoroughly sniffed.   
  
Mr. The Kid showed no intention of moving, and the position brought Cliff's own face into much closer acquaintance with the other man's neck than he would have volunteered for. The gunslinger's smell was overpoweringly awful, horses and leather and soil and sweat. But, oddly, there was something raw about it that Cliff's body responded too. He was flooded with unwanted warmth, and pushed Mr. The Kid away.   
  
His wide crazy mouth was smiling, and his eyes were twinkling.   
  
“You smell... _Pretty_...”  
  
Cliff's face flushed in annoyance. He wanted to move away from Mr. The Kid, but refused to beat a retreat from his own desk.

“It's called aftershave, mate. You oughtta try it sometime.”  
  
“But you haven't shaved...”  
  
Mr. The Kid darted his hand out to brush against Cliff's bristly chin.   
  
“It's 'designer stubble' mate, it's in fashion. And you don't have to 'ave shaved to wear aftershave, you wally.”  
  
Cliff was getting really fed-up with all these invasions of his personal space, so he grabbed Mr. The Kid's wrist, harder than was perhaps necessary.   
  
In retrospect, of course, this voluntary physical contact was a mistake. Cliff could see the other man's pupils enlarge, and his lips curve upwards at one side.   
  
Bloody time sewers.   
  
How many times had he written to those clowns and asked – not for them to _solve_ the problem, oh no, no, he was a Londoner, his expectations of authority weren't that high – but merely for them to _warn_ inexperienced historical figures what to expect from time travel?  
  
When that hadn't worked Cliff had written again suggesting that a pamphlet was commissioned - 'What to expect when travelling through the time vortex.'  
  
 **Rule one:** the vortex has a mild but noticeable aphrodisiac effect.   
  
**Rule two:** the giddiness of being in a different time period often leads to historical figures loosing their inhibitions...  
  
Honestly, Cliff could write a book, he really could. And yet those useless bastards over at the time sewers couldn't even produce a bloody pamphlet...  
  
None of this internal tirade helped Cliff with his present predicament. Mr. The Kid's scrutiny was making him blush again.   
  
“Hey, Mister? With all your fancy clothes and your perfume and your 'designer stubble', ah reckon my friends back West'd call you a sissy.”  
  
At Cliff's thunderous expression, Mr. The Kid quickly added;  
  
“Not me though, Sir, I like it...”  
  
Cliff's eyeballs took their well-trodden path around the inside of his sockets. He made to shove Billy the Kid away, but the gunslinger had the definite advantage of having his arse perched firmly on Cliff's desk and so didn't move an inch. Instead, he gripped Cliff's shoulder with his free hand and tried to pull him closer.   
  
“Listen, mate, I've 'ad just about enough of you. You're really startin' to take the mickey. And I'll 'ave you know I play on the darts team at my local, and they don't let 'sissies' join...”  
  
Cliff was quite confused by what happened next. It almost seemed like he _let_ Mr. The Kid reach around to the back of his neck and pull his head towards him – but that was just _ridiculous_.   
  
It had clearly occurred, however, as Cliff's lips were now mashed up against that hideous, sour-smelling, crooked-toothed mouth.   
  
Everything had moved so quickly that Cliff's own mouth had still been partially open from talking, so he couldn't be too surprised when a bumpy tongue pushed clumsily into his mouth and lolled there like a dead chicken for a moment before retracting to stroke over the tender insides of his lips.   
  
Once again, Cliff was confused, because he thought he heard himself gasp. He definitely opened his mouth wider, and his own tongue raced furiously to join in the action.   
  
Suddenly Cliff was pressing his body forward, forcing that cocky gunslinging bastard to lean far backwards over the desk. By now they were kissing so hard and messily that their teeth clacked together painfully.

  
Perhaps it was fortuitous that Cliff found himself stood firmly between Mr. The Kid's spread legs. His hands splayed over the other man's broad chest and ran underneath the coarse and grubby fabric of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders.   
  
Mr. The Kid made a small, excited sound and lifted his back to allow Cliff to take the jacket off, bringing their already heaving chests into direct contact. Once the offending garment had been thrown into the far corner of the room, their arms sprang to wrap tightly around each other as there was a sudden need to eliminate any remaining space between them.   
  
Cliff felt quite triumphant when his licking around Mr. The Kid's sharp teeth made the other man whine and throw his head back. He immediately cried out in pain and they were forced to stop while he extracted Cliff's telephone from between his shoulder blades. The phone swiftly followed Billy's jacket into the corner.   
  
The brief pause in the proceedings gave Cliff unnecessary time to think about what he was doing and whether he should stop it. But Mr. The Kid was sprawled across the desk smiling his crooked smile looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, and it just wasn't on.   
  
So he grabbed the gunslinger's bandanna and used it to haul him into an upright position again, before tearing it off. Mr. The Kid had a tide-mark of grime that ran around the top of where the bandanna had rested, and Cliff had the oddest urge to lick it. But oh Christ no, how could he even... That was just disgusting and unhygienic, it wasn't sexy in the least, what was wrong with him?  
  
The other man's dopey, happy facial expression lulled Cliff into a false sense of security so that he didn't even notice that he was being divested of his belt until it was too late to do anything about it. His shirt was unbuttoned and flung open, too, a feat that Mr. The Kid had somehow managed to accomplish without removing Cliff's tie or jacket.   
  
Cliff stared down at his own exposed chest for a moment before lunging for Mr. The Kid's neck and sucking at his grubby salty skin while his hands fisted in his collar. He let his teeth rasp over the tide mark and then lapped at the man's clavicle.   
  
The heat between them increased exponentially. One or both of them had the idea of thrusting their hips forward, and the painful cloth-rubbing friction that resulted made them both shout out.   
  
Shit shit shit, thought Cliff. This had gone too far. His erection was raging and all he could think about was _shoving_ it up...  
  
Mr. The Kid seemed to be having similar thoughts. Their eyes met seriously for the first time since this had started, and Cliff thought that Mr. The Kid may as well have had 'Well up for it, mate' tattooed across his forehead.   
  
Cliff grunted in annoyance and gave in. It'd been a while, after all. Although he'd probably never forgive himself for doing... _this..._  
  
Oh, fuck it. He roughly palmed Billy's hard cock through the itchy material of his trousers, and Billy obligingly gasped and rolled his hips up off the desk to meet the pressure.   
  
“Awwwwwwww, Mister?” He whined breathily. “Do you think you could get on with it?”  
  
Cliff may have growled a bit in response. Stupid loud-mouthed fake cowboy idiot-man. He fumbled quick as he could with fly buttons and made Billy stand up in order to push his trousers and drawers down.   
  
When this was done Cliff's hands found their way to Billy's arse of their own accord. And – _god_ – it was a nice arse, firm and round and muscly but with a bit of extra padding. They were suddenly kissing again, stood face to face with Billy's drawers around his ankles, and Billy's naked crotch pressing against the aching bulge in Cliff's white suit trousers, and Cliff's fingers playing around with Billy's arsehole...  
  
 _Don't think about how unhygienic this is going to be, just don't,_ Cliff told himself firmly.

Billy eagerly perched himself back on the desk and raised his legs to hook around Cliff's waist.   
  
Cliff frowned through a haze of lust. “Mate, are you sure you're ready?” He managed, even as he opened up his own trousers.   
  
Billy laughed. “Sir, how many times d'you think ah've done this before? I'm used to takin' it rough.”  
  
Cliff groaned and spat into his palm, coating his stiffy in saliva and waiting until Billy had coated his entrance with his own spit.   
  
When he pushed in, the lack of resistance made Cliff realise just how much Billy must have done this before, and he felt like an idiot. But it was hard to hold onto that now, or any feelings other than the heat engulfing him.  
  
Panting, Billy leant back on his arms, angled his hips, and used his legs to pull Cliff in deeper.   
  
“Fuck me. Please.” He said.   
  
Cliff grinned. “Now who's a sissy, eh?” His palms were flat on the desk either side of Billy as he began to pound into him.   
  
Billy thrust himself down to meet each movement of Cliff's, and soon he was making strangled cries with every snap of their hips. The speed of it was dizzying. With each powerful thrust Cliff felt Billy's swollen cock bob against his straining abdominal muscles, leaving sticky trails.   
  
The animal noises Billy was making were giving him a heady rush. The only sound out of Cliff was low grunting in time with his movements.   
  
Then with one particularly hard thrust Billy seemed to loose it completely, and began to talk. At an unnerving volume.   
  
“Yes. YEAH. Oh yeah... Fuck me! FUCK ME! Come on, come on... Fuck me!”  
  
This should have been ridiculous and annoying. Frankly, what exactly did he think Cliff was doing if not that?  
  
But instead, it made Cliff strive to pound harder. By this time the desk was protesting noisily as each thrust moved it a few millimetres across the floor.   
  
“YEAH! Fuck me! Fuck me. Harder! Fuck, fuck... Yes...”  
  
With impressive stamina, Billy bent his upper body forwards and wrapped his arms around Cliff's torso, hoisting himself so he was barely perched on the desk at all. He nuzzled Cliff's hairy chest and his hands reached around to knead Cliff's buttocks, blunt fingers exploring his arse crack, and then knobbly knuckles roving tantalisingly over his entrance.   
  
Cliff shouted.   
  
“OH... Take it!” He shoved Billy back down over the desk, gripped his hipbones firmly and lost all control of his movements. “Take it, take it, takeit takeitTAKE IT!”  
  
Billy was coming, coating his already filthy shirt with arcs of white, some of it splattering on to Cliff's chest, and he was clenching too _oh Christ_ and Cliff was shuddering and pounding and yelling _and – andandAND..._   
  
Coming. Coming. COM-ING... _Ahhhhh..._  
  
And then everything went a bit hazy.   
  
Later, Cliff would try to edit his memory of this encounter to the point where the entire day was a blank. He definitely DID NOT remember shouting 'WALL-OPPP!!' at the moment of his release, although other parties would swear to it. He did, however, have a distinct memory of Mr. The Kid screaming 'Yee-haw!' at an ear-splitting volume as he came.

  
*********

  
Susan adjusted her specs on the bridge of her nose and was surprised to find that the lenses had begun to steam up. She pressed her ear up even closer to Cliff's office door and strained to catch the gist of the conversation going on inside. She couldn't really make out words, just... muffled grunting?  
  
She jumped back in fright as she heard a jangling crash, a bit like a telephone being dropped on the floor, and turned quickly to check that no-one had come into the waiting room. Reassured, she crowded against the door again.  
  
For a while, all she could make out were the slightest rustling sounds of movement. And then... gasping and whining from Billy the Kid (that arse-pinching bastard), then what sounded like Cliff _growling_.  
  
There was a somewhat ominous silence, followed by what was unmistakably Cliff's voice, though she couldn't quite make out the words.   
  
Crouched uncomfortably against the whitewashed door, Susan bit her lip.   
  
A few more words, a bit of loud panting, and then... Well, _then_ she could make out the exact words that Mr. The Kid said.   
  
_“Fuck me. Please.”_  
  
Followed by the repeated creaking of Cliff's poor desk, rapidly increasing in both speed and volume.   
  
Susan pressed her hand over her mouth and felt her face flood with colour. She had the presence of mind to cast another furtive glance around the waiting room, but apart from that she could do nothing but _listen_ as her boss rogered a repulsive wild-west conman with bad hair and worse teeth.   
  
Well. _Really_.   
  
It wasn't as if she _fancied_ Cliff, exactly – he was her boss, after all – but, well... She'd always sort of imagined ( _not_ fantasised – oh no, of course not) that if Cliff were to take anyone roughly over his desk it would, in the fullness of time, be her.   
  
Susan wasn't sure she bloody wanted him now, not if this was any measure of his taste...  
  
Even so, she didn't stop listening. A sudden extremely loud shout made her heart thunder.   
  
_“Yes. YEAH. Oh yeah... Fuck me! FUCK ME! Come on, come on... Fuck me!”_  
  
And now she could hear Cliff's desk being forcibly shoved across his office by their repeated thrusts...  
  
 _“YEAH! Fuck me! Fuck me. Harder! Fuck, fuck... Yes...”_  
  
Susan shifted her weight and adjusted her skirt, her knickers becoming damp and warm between her thighs.   
  
Someone behind her cleared their throat.   
  
Susan started up violently, wondering briefly if this was what a heart-attack felt like.   
  
She kept her head angled down as she resumed her position behind her desk, and only looked up when she had given up all hope of ever stopping blushing.   
  
“Druscus Severus.” The muddy, bloody Roman centurion barked at her. “I'm Mr. Whiteley's five 'o clock.”  
  
“Yes sir, I'm afraid that Mr. Whiteley's last appointment has... overrun. If you'd like to take a seat in the waiting area -”  
  
As Susan gestured to the seats Cliff's voice boomed from the office.   
  
_“OH... Take it! Take it, take it, takeit takeitTAKE IT!”_  
  
She and the Roman both froze, eyes locked in shared mortification.   
  
The Roman had already looked a bit bemused. Now he appeared wild eyed and terrified.   
  
“I'll just...” he pointed weakly at a chair “...then, shall I?”  
  
But he was almost entirely drowned out by two simultaneous ear-splitting yells, one definitely _'WALL-OP!'_ and the other most likely _'YEEE-HAWWW!'_.  
  
Susan closed her eyes and grimaced, fervently hoping to hear no further sounds from that direction. When she could bear to open them again the Centurion had turned to walk, rather stiffly, towards the seating area.   
  
_Nice legs_ , she thought absently as she got back to her filing, resolving to spit in Cliff's tea the next chance she got.   
  
  
**...FIN...**

 


End file.
